The bedroom’s still full dark, blue tint sliding to a different wall with the adjusted angle of the moon. The bed is empty, comforter tucked in tight on the other side to seal in my body heat with what’s left over of Hall’s. But the body that’s supposed to be stretched next to mine is gone.

“Hall?” I call quietly. Maybe he’s sitting on the floor working on a scrapbook.

No response.

I slide out of bed, tiptoeing down the hallway, hugging my arms against a chill that catches me now that I’ve left my blanket behind. “Hall?” I ask again, tentatively.

Has he . . . ?

He can’t have.

The den, sitting room, and kitchen are empty. When I find him in the living room, my knees go loose and watery with relief and I clutch the arm of a chair. He’s standing in the golden starburst of light surrounding the Christmas tree, watching the snowy world beyond the glass patio doors with a tilted head, absently toying with a Popsicle stick ornament. When he spots my reflection drifting up behind him, he turns.

“Hey.” My voice is shaky. “What are you doing down here? Don’t tell me you’re snooping through presents.”

His expression transforms with that crackling-fire smile, twin flames in the depths of his eyes. “And if I was?”

I poke him in the chest. “That’s cheating.” But I’m a hypocrite, so I start snooping, too.

“I’m still working on your gift.” He waves a hand, within which a shiny, book-shaped package appears. “Not finished yet, but I hope you’ll like it.”

The grandfather clock gongs midnight, and I bite my lip. “I suppose I can let you take a peek at what I got for you, now that it’s officially Christmas.”

He hits me with that solar flare of a smile. “Yeah?”

My hand slides up his wrist, tracing his forearm. “Yeah. I think you should have the honor of opening the first present. You’ve done so much for all of us.”

My gift to Hall lacks presentation. I went overboard with the tape, and it’s lumpy, but you’d never guess I did a bad job by his reaction. “Oh my.” Hand over his heart. “Bettie.”

“What do you think?”

I already know the answer. He’s so easy to please. He smooths the new sweater against his chest and tucks his chin down to appreciate it. The sweater says hall i want for christmas is you (Bettie Hughes, in collaboration with Madeline Watson-Hughes, $29.99 plus supplies).

“Something else, too,” I add, a little shy. I go fetch his other present from the laundry room, where I’d stashed it earlier, fiddling nervously with my hair when he accepts it without a word: a bouquet of mixed flowers in crinkly wrapping. It comes with a note: From your secret admirer.

“You mentioned that you’ve always wanted one,” I rush to explain. “The flowers and the, uh, secret admirer. I know it’s not the same as a proper Valentine’s Day secret admirer, but—”